A New Path For Patrick

December 29, 1991|BY TIMOTHY DODSON

IT`S SAID THAT NO ONE WALKS anymore, but my son and I are doing our best to prove otherwise. It has become our custom to take long walks whenever we can, although probably we do it for different reasons. He`s 2. I`m older.

The planned community in which we live in Coconut Creek affords an ideal setting. Around much of the perimeter there`s a walking path alongside a lake. Other paths cut through the residential section, and along the way there are mini-playgrounds: here a pair of swings or a slide, there a set of monkey bars.

The lake is man-made, of course (this is South Florida), but pretty nonetheless. For a guy who grew up in the Bronx, it`s downright rustic.

Patrick is old enough to be inquisitive but still young enough to be helpless and charming in his ignorance. Thus, an age-old pattern has manifested itself: whenever we come upon something with which he is unfamiliar, he asks what it is; and I, duly paternal, demystify the unknown by attaching a name to it.

``What`s this?`` he will ask, wide-eyed.

``That`s a biiiiiig birdy,`` the omniscient father will answer. Then I will explain that some birds are called wading birds, because they like to walk along the shallow edges of lakes and streams.

``Wa-ding bir-dy,`` he will repeat, in awe of such a wise daddy.

Then the bird, refusing to be categorized, flies away. Someday my son will be able to appreciate the irony in moments such as this, but for now he just watches it happen.

``Bir-dy fly,`` he says, eyes upward, full of wonder. More questions seem to flirt with conscious- ness, then recede into the enormous future that is childhood.

As we walk, the inquiring litany repeats itself, growing as familiar and predictable as the journey.

But even a 2-year-old gets to know the landscape pretty well after a few months. Now he asks less and tells more.

``Tree,`` he will say, pointing knowingly at the big thing with the, er, um...

``Leaves,`` he says.

Right, leaves.

``Duckie,`` he says, pointing at one of the ubiquitous Muscovy uglies. ``Duckie bite you,`` he adds, remembering the time he got nipped by a duck impatient for the scrap of stale bread Patrick was about to throw it.

And so our walks go. Next to the definition of simple pleasures in the dictionary is a picture of Patrick and me walking along our path.

Still, a child can get bored with just walking. He begins to need a prop. And that`s how the little toy lawnmower came to join us on our walks.

To me, the lawnmower is a window into the mind of a 2-year-old.

Patrick has seen the lawn maintenance crew working around the grounds. He also knows that Mommy and Daddy go to work every day. He must imagine, in his twoness, that work has something to do with lawnmowers, and that Mommy and Daddy push the doggone things around all the livelong day. His most cherished possession, therefore, is his toy lawnmower.

ONE RECENT EVENING, HOWEVER, he was willing to part with it for a little while. He was tired and wanted me to carry him. No problem. It`s a pretty safe, secure community, so I saw nothing wrong with leaving the lawnmower alongside the path and doubling back for it on our way home.

But a half-hour later, when we returned, the lawnmower was gone. My heart sank. Patrick`s heart must have felt that this was an ominous new mystery of life indeed.

Then we saw the sorry sight. It was on the other side of the fence that separates the path from the water. How forlorn it looked, stuck head-first into the shallow water on the shore of the lake, its handle askew.

Patrick could not imagine how it had gotten there.

I could. Someone obviously had thought it fun to break a child`s toy, then leave it where he could see it but not reach it. Make the little guy squirm. Make him cry.

But in this pleasant community of walking paths and friendly neighbors, who could be so cruel?

Someone later told me she had seen some kids, about 9 years old, on bicycles in the vicinity about that time. Other circumstantial evidence pointed to them as well.

It wouldn`t hold up in court, but I knew those kids were the guilty ones.

In my anger I found myself trying to imagine the home lives of such 9-year- olds. Probably they watched too much television. Probably they loved the kind of cynical fare they saw on sitcoms every night: the ethnic ``humor,`` the snide put-downs, the nasty practical jokes. Probably their parents, products of TV themselves, reinforced that kind of behavior as the model for their children`s aspirations.

But then I calmed down and realized they were just being kids. More to the point, they were just being boys. Their cruel act was part of their passage into manhood.

There is something in men, and in boys after a certain age, that makes them want to put their mark on things, to make things their own, even if only by destroying them. And yet, whatever it is, it is the same impulse that makes men want to build things, create things. For better or worse, the world as we know it could not exist without this impulse.

``What`s this?`` Patrick asked when he saw his little toy lawnmower in the water.

I knew he knew what the lawnmower was. I knew he knew what the lake was.

He must have meant, ``What is this thing in men, and in boys after a certain age, that makes them want to put their mark on things by destroying them?``

I didn`t have an answer; I hoped he wouldn`t press the issue. If he did, it might ruin our walks forever.